


the problem with love

by bitch3s (softsmilesandbrokenhearts)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Hannibal Lecter Is Bad At Feelings, Hannibal Lecter is a Mess, I'm Sorry, Introspection, M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27288982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsmilesandbrokenhearts/pseuds/bitch3s
Summary: Men like him do not fall in love. But as Hannibal takes in the tantalizing shake to Will’s body, the ghosts that haunt his eyes, he thinks maybe this can be the first. It is scary, bone deep and strange, how forty something years of living in near neutrality and nothing, and yet a few months with this wild cunning boy turns him soft.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	the problem with love

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these characters. Respective rights go to Brian Fuller and Thomas Harris.

Loneliness is human nature, crawling beneath the psyches of even the most normal people. It is a given, something that comes as a side effect of living on this barren desolate world. Where billions of people tread the same earth as you, and the feeling of utter isolation still reaches you.  
  
This is perhaps why Hannibal is fortunate, that he is not quite human. He is above the revolting creatures that crawl around before him, and yet he knows deep down that no matter how far he goes with his darker inclinations, that he will always have that humane tendency to feel in him. He wishes he wouldn’t, that he could fall pray to insanity or lose the ability to feel, no matter how little he does these days.  
  
He rarely has many opportunities to feel, mostly base surface emotions that appease the world around him and keep his shields up. The anger and indignation at the world’s appalling rudeness are near the only thing that still makes him feel, fuels him up with fiery rath as he acts with the righteousness that belongs to God. It is invigorating and addicting, and yet, he still feels, and that is where the problem lies.  
  
He is a monster in all regards, hiding behind the falsities of a human prison, and he wishes he would feel like a monster, devoid of nothing but an endless hunger.  
  
He feels, on quiet nights, where the blood and heavy scent of fear are not enough to quiet his mind and feels desperately lonely. Where his hunger doesn’t quite sate him, thoughts on the edge of too loud. It makes him wonder, if he is doomed to feel like this forever, feeling too little until he feels too much, horrifyingly human.  
  
Hannibal is aware that the life he has held will not last forever. That one day his reckoning will come, and he will either face defeat or bow down before a vengeful deity. Perhaps he will enjoy it, find penance in his suffering, but for now it is an idle thought, hidden behind the walls of his brain. It is a pleasant vision that horrifies him, one that ends in a bloodbath and sharp teeth, and bitter betrayal.  
  
Hannibal tries not to wonder who will betray him, who will get close enough to be able to hurt him so.  
  
He takes pride in his control, his ability to manipulate his life into one that reflects only his best values. He does not let himself consider the loneliness that eats away at his brain, because how can he truly be lonely if he’s never felt what its like to be alone. Hannibal is surrounded by people, his peers and guests, the ones that are considered his friends. He is content in this twisted double life, happy with his control.  
  
He does not dare consider the tired nights where life’s repetition becomes too much to bear, and he aches with the feeling of never being known. He is fine and happy with his life; he does not want to consider the possibility if he isn’t.  
  
Mischa’s ghost flickers in and out of his eyesight, and he ignores the aching pain that comes with it. She was the last person he let in, the only one he full heartedly cared for, monster and all. He dares not open again, ignoring the weak baseless lump that grows in his throat. He refuses to bend to an emotion so utterly beneath him, and so he banishes it, watching Mischa frown, a slight thing, before disappearing.  
He is not lonely; how could he be?  
  
  
  
Life goes on, he grows in reputation and muscle, and watches in vague distant amusement as his hair begins to gray. He had not expected to last this far in life, did not consider that his control, masterfully crafted and adapted would last this long.  
  
But he is, and he takes it in stride, and grows in confidence that this will last forever.  
  
He will not think of betrayal any longer, the idea that this might end.  
  
  
  
He is called in, begged over the rumbling static of a telephone, asked to do a simple favor for the FBI. Hannibal is intrigued, and agrees, if not for keeping up pretenses and a reputation, then to get close to the very people who are trying to hunt him down. It is satisfying and humorous in so many ways, and Hannibal ignores the crude words of Jack Crawford, denies the itch beneath his chest to do something unscrupulous. He envisions his hands breaking the man’s chest and tearing out his heart, only to find a pale small thing, lacking empathy.  
  
Perhaps the thought is too vindicative, too angry, but he sees how desperate the burly man is, and how he denies people the courtesies they deserve.  
  
Hannibal thinks it will be Crawford’s end, his lack of ability to stop pushing, a fierce animal on a track of righteousness too blind to see the people he hurts along his quest.  
  
It will bring him deep pleasure to see his downfall, but for now, he is content to sit by and eat by his side, as a friend.  
  
They say this man, a boy really in Hannibal’s eyes, soft curls, and lithe limbs, is broken, a psychological curiosity. His brain doesn’t work the way most people do, and no one can label it, so they stick fragile on the man and expect him to act as such. Hannibal thinks otherwise, has heard through the grapevine about Will Graham, of his empathy, his gift to see too much.  
  
Hannibal wonders what it feels like, to feel too much, to take in everything that his dark mind can conjure, visions of gore and misplaced emotions, and still be expected to fit into the box that society wants him in. He has not yet met the man, and he already knows that Will is a force to be reckoned with.  
  
When Hannibal meets him, he does not go into the room expecting much. He is curious and half-bored by Crawford’s desperate flailing, but he feels near nothing when he walks into the room. He dresses down, and plays the part, the rich psychologist who knows a lot, but not too much.  
  
He will soon discover, with a dismay that he refuses to acknowledge, that these will be the last moments that are truly his. From this point on, his thoughts will be focused on another being, and he will feel, and ache ardently so, for things that he couldn’t possibly have.  
  
That when Will walks in and sits next to him, with aching shoulders and eyes that deny the world, his brain finds devotion in the impossible. Sees the broken shell of a man that the world wants him to fix, and the horrific creature beneath that, begging to be let out.  
  
The man snarks back at him, and Hannibal cant find it in him to see it rude, too caught up in the way the man’s eyes catch his own and fail to shy away, despite Will’s self-proclaimed aversion to eye contact.  
  
He thinks, a man already on the line of obsessed, that he is utterly and entirely doomed.  
  
  
  
Sometimes, in their sessions, where Will prowls around the room in anxious jitters and hoarse whispers, he envisions telling Will. Letting him know that the very man that haunts his thoughts is sitting next to him, feeding him, letting him into his home. Hannibal wonders how wide Will’s eyes would get if they would bulge so hugely out of his skull that they could pop out with ease.  
  
Will watches him so much, peers out from behind the rims of his glasses, and stares when he thinks Hannibal isn’t aware. Will knows something, Hannibal can see it in how he freezes sometimes, pondering over what Hannibal must have let out in his own eyes, in the twitches of his face.  
  
Though, if he knows what he really shouldn’t, it is subconsciously, packed away behind guilt and affection for his friend, the good doctor that anchors him to reality. Hannibal longs to tell him the truth, find an ally in the shaky hands and dark thoughts of the bright man who sits before him.  
  
When Hannibal starts smelling different, a bitter sad sort of smell, he realizes far too late that this will be his damnation one way or another. He smells of longing and trapped desire, and he wonders when he allowed himself to feel enough to fall so low.  
  
And he hates it so, and yet he lets it happen all the same. If he were to want something, let himself submit to his urges, he figures that Will is the only creature on Earth that deserves his affections.  
  
He wants to taste the younger man’s eyes, devour the kind and not-so right eyes that often peer back at him, knowing and yet unaware all the same.  
  
  
  
Men like him do not fall in love. But as Hannibal takes in the tantalizing shake to Will’s body, the ghosts that haunt his eyes, he thinks maybe this can be the first. It is scary, bone deep and strange, how forty something years of living in near neutrality and nothing, and yet a few months with this wild cunning boy turns him soft.  
  
Quiet visions of simple intimacy flicker through his brain, of holding hands and muffled laughter, and it hurts to think of. He had never thought of love regarding himself, and even if he did, he thought it would be a dark paltry thing. He never thought it would feel normal, or as normal as someone like him could get.  
  
He wants, and it’s a terrible thing that will destroy him.  
  
He catches Mischa watching him one night, eyebrows furrowed and sad, and Hannibal wishes he could explain things, make it all go away. Tell her that he would have saved her, that his being is not something that should reflect on her death. It hurt him, but it is not her fault. But he can’t find the words, and so he silently watches back, an ache in his heart that sits not quite right. Her ghost stays with him, a constant reminder of his one true failure, and it hurts so badly.  
  
Will is going to hurt him too, and Hannibal wonders if its too late to ruin this. Frame the man and run away, content that he didn’t completely keel over, belly up to the only living person to ever have his heart truly.  
  
He wonders, too late, if he could still tear Will apart, open his chest cavity and grasp his heart, his soul. Wonders if Will would allow him to taste his brain, examine his beautiful mind, and consume him until they are one.  
  
Will in his dreams shines brightly, covered in blood and grinning lopsidedly at him. Their hands meet in the middle, and when they kiss it feels like absolution.  
  
  
  
Will asks him once, a dark glint to his pale shaking eyes and hands that appear too still to be normal, as if he were holding back from something.  
  
“Are you always so vacant?” The question is there, a deeper thing hidden behind a casual front. But Hannibal hears what the younger man is really asking. Are you always so cold and emotionless, or is it fear holding you back?  
  
Fear is an emotion that Hannibal is not yet accustomed to, having gone decades without the beating pulses of terror rattling in his chest. And yet, as time goes by, the longer Will stays by his side, he finds himself encountering feelings that he didn’t know he could have. He doesn’t want to consider the idea of fear, that something like that could eat away at his brain, and yet a heavy lump settles in his throat.  
  
He can hear the diagnoses running through the man’s brain, as he tries to piece together Hannibal’s life on the limited information he has. Blue eyes catch his, considering and shuttered all at once, and Hannibal wishes he could read him, see what goes on in the man’s brain.  
  
“I have emotions Will. They just stay down due to years of training. I find it easier to stay calm in the social circles I frequent.” He whispers into the heavy silence between them, and it feels like a confession to something he can’t comprehend. Will frowns and open his mouth as if to say something, but he shakes his head and settles back into his seat and looks at his hands.  
  
It’s all him, this disregard to his cool exterior, the bane of his love making him aggravatingly soft. That his love for Will is destroying him bit by bit, and he is frightened tremendously.  
  
Hannibal foolishly wants to tell him then, another secret of his, one that is simpler and pure. But he knows deep down, that out of the two secrets that Hannibal wants to tell, one will frighten the man more, and it is the one that most people would rather hear.  
  
It is bittersweet, knowing that Will would accept his kills and his darkness long before he accepts his love.  
  
  
  
Hannibal is somehow lonelier now, and it frustrates him. He has a taste of a life that he should never be able to consider, and it burns him now, destroys him on the days where the only traces of Will are in his head.  
  
He wishes for simplicity, for the days where he was lonely but could disregard it and ignore everything else.  
  
Most of all though, he wishes that Will would just see him back.  
  
  
  
Hannibal thinks that Will knows of his affections, despite all he has done to hide it. Though he thinks back to moments where his heart surged with fond affection, and considers the idea that maybe these emotions, too new to understand, show up on his face no matter how far up his walls are.  
  
His suspicions are confirmed one night, when Will comes by, a bottle of wine in hand and a shy smile playing on his face.  
  
They drink, and talk, of crime scenes and food, and it is perfect and wonderful, and Hannibal wonders if his content, his utter happiness at this easy banter shows on his face.  
  
“Have you ever been with a man Dr. Lecter?” It’s a baseless question, completely off topic from what Will had been just ranting about a moment before, something about dog food and unnecessary prices. Hannibal takes a moment to process what the man said, before turning in his chair, facing Will who is leaning against a wall near the fireplace. He looks ethereal with the low flickers of light dancing on his face, and he has the strange urge to draw this moment, capture Will’s hooded eyes and easy posture.  
  
“I find pleasure where it suits me.” Hannibal begins, and after catching Will’s fond yet exasperated look, he admits it quietly and watches with apprehension as Will makes his way towards his desk. “A few yes, though I am not as experienced as my years might lead one to believe.” He does not admit that it has been years since he has been with someone for a reason beyond appeasing his social circles.  
  
That were he ever to be with someone, both body and mind, it would have to be Will.  
  
“Mhmm. So, you’ve fucked guys before.” Will asks and perches up on the corner nearest to Hannibal, and Hannibal absent mindedly admonishes Will for his language, too focused on the way his jeans tighten around his lean thighs, the curve of his bottom perched on the desk. He has the strange urge to kneel and worship the man, bite the supple flesh of Will’s thighs until he cries out. Hannibal lets the thought linger for a moment too long, and he crosses his legs together as he feels his body begin to take interest in his thoughts.  
  
Will notices that, and stares at his knees for a moment before smirking and looking back up at Hannibal. He leans in, a hand falling on Hannibal’s upper thigh, and smiles an amused grin.  
  
“Do you want me?” Will asks, strangely seductive, and Hannibal finds himself nodding far too eagerly. Will seems to like it though, his face brightens at his enthusiasm, and his eyes widen with fond amusement. He takes his bright eyes off Hannibal for a moment, and slithers into Hannibal’s lap with an embarrassed laugh.  
  
“I’ve never” Will begins and then flushes a dull red before continuing, “I have never done this before, so you’ll have to teach me.”  
  
“Of course. I find that a hands-on approach is best for these types of situations.” His voice is two shades too breathy, but Will doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on running his hands up and down Hannibal’s chest.  
  
“Well then.” The younger man smiles, and his eyes glint fiercely in the pale firelight. “Come show me.”  
  
Hannibal wastes no more time, and when his lips connect to Will’s, he wonders how he ever thought this was bad for him.  
  
  
  
Will likes him back, impossibly so, and yet he takes it for what it is and is happy, content in their new intimacy.  
  
He does not see the considering looks Will gives him, or how if he were more in the right state of mind, he would see how hesitant Will is around him. The way his body says I don't love you, but I want to. But it hurts me too much, and I think this is why I will hurt you.  
  
He sees none of it, and the parts of him that do pretend that nothing is wrong.  
  
He sees Mischa everywhere, a bright vibrant thing of his past, and he wonders, whether her connection to his emotions was God’s intention, a way to make him suffer and realize how weak he is, or if it is fate, a warm hand guiding him to humanities softer whims.  
  
  
  
He is covered in bruises for the next few days, a gentle ache in his thighs when he sits down, and he takes great pleasure in it, knowing that Will was the one to cause it.  
  
It’s a beautiful heady thing, the way their bodies fit together, and how rough and yet quietly gentle Will is with him. The hunger in him grows, and he plants bodies around the city, screaming his affections out to the world.  
  
They are pieces of art, some of his finest work, and they are love letters addressed to the man who makes him feel whole. A year, six months ago even, he wouldn’t have wanted this, wouldn’t want the gentle feelings, and pretty want to sit in his chest, but he loves it now.  
  
Loves Will obsessively and possessively, and he dreams of a future where they kill together and for each other. He loves like normal people do to, in the quiet soft moments and the simple worship of each other’s bodies.  
  
He is in love, his monstrous side is too, and the world knows that now.  
  
Hannibal doesn’t think of repercussions, or how well Will’s mind works, and that in and of itself is a warning.  
  
  
  
He knows before he can ponder on the idea that something is wrong.  
  
Will smiles at him, lingering on the edge of not-quite right, and Hannibal knows there is something he should be seeing, connections that he is failing to make.  
  
He smirks then, a pale cruel thing that is lovely in the worst ways, and his eyes are dark and emotionless. Hannibal wonders then, half in delicate fear, when Will had become his mirror image. When Hannibal had taken Will’s empathy and applied it to himself, and Will in turn took his cruelness, the steady blankness of his face.  
  
Hannibal is too busy pondering how the two of them might continue to morph, that he fails to see the glint of a knife until its too late, and a sharp piercing pain shatters through his thoughts.  
  
He crumples and stares up at Will, who is looking down at him with thinly veiled disgust, and it hurts, worse than the stab wound that is depleting Hannibal of his life force.  
  
It hurts and Hannibal wishes he couldn’t feel, wishes the ache of it all would go away.  
  
When he wakes up from this nightmare, smelling of fear and regret, he knows what he must do.  
  
And the thought of that, wide hands slinking around a pale lithe throat, hurts even more.  
  
  
  
He closes off after that, ignoring Will's strange and hurt looks when he denies his touch. He thinks that maybe if I let this affection fade, Will won't hurt me, and I will not have to hurt him back. It is a silly, senseless thought, and he knows deep down, that their days together are numbered, counting down to someone's betrayal. Hannibal hasn't decided who it will be yet, the one who ends it all, but he knows it will hurt, and so he closes off and rebuilds his walls.  
  
Mischa’s ghost is faint now, a lingering thought in his brain where he begins to heal and in turn she begins to fade. It hurts a little, to see the last visible image of her, no matter how fake, go away, but he knows now he is stronger than this.  
  
When she disappears, a weak smile playing on her cold lips, he does not miss her.  
  
  
  
Will is the one who pulls the trigger, the gentle ringing of the telephone breaking Hannibal's thoughts and sending a rush of fear and misery down his throat. He swallows it and answers, preparing for the worst.  
  
“I know. I let it slip to Jack.” Will says over the phone, quiet and subdued, and the sting of his betrayal hurts worse than it should. He wants to ask how Will found out, but he already knows, barriers weakened by his affections, and Will’s love. And Will is a bright, intelligent man, who was given too many opportunities to figure this out. The thought of that doesn't make it sting any less.  
  
He knew this would happen, had dreamt of it in so many forms, and it still makes him ache a little inside.  
  
When he finds Will, hiding in his house with barren sad eyes, he strengthens his resolve and slips into the house, watching as Will flinches at the door slamming.  
  
I love you, is something he doesn’t say, but he feels it lying on the tip of his tongue begging to be let out. He manages to swallow it back, and school his expression into something more neutral. He doesn’t dare say it now, not in his hurt, and when he slinks up to Will’s shaking form, he murmurs a solid goodbye.  
  
When his hands string the life out of the man he tastes salt, tears of forgiveness and anger all at once. It feels empty compared to his other kills, and Hannibal is not a killer who honors his victims, but he wonders too late if he should of honored Will.  
  
He does his best in post-mortem and leaves Will's corpse surrounded by flowers of heartache and limbs stretched to form a broken heart. This is his final love letter, a reminder to those and himself of the foolishness of love.  
  
He eats Will’s heart raw, still fresh and tasting of resigned fear, and it doesn’t taste as good as it should of, taken too soon from the man’s prone form.  
  
When he covers his tracks, and flees, Will’s hollow bones clacking along with his own, he wonders if he made a mistake. Impulsively acted out in fear and rage and left to deal with the bitter consequences.  
  
But he doesn’t feel much remorse, much of anything, besides a gentle fear of being caught, and a lust for human flesh. He lost the capacity to mourn for Will somewhere between gutting him open, hands slick with warm blood, and watching the fierce light of his eyes fade away.  
  
And yet.  
  
He sees a shadow in the corner of his eye, a dim grey thing, the glint of glasses and a lopsided smile. It follows him around, with a solemn frown and knowing eyes, and the hurt that flickers in the back of his brain is ignored to the best of his abilities. He does not see the ghost, wishes he wouldn't and yet halfway to Venice, he relents and looks back. The ghost stares right back and when it sees Hannibal making eye contact, it grins, a familiar thing that makes his chest hurt.  
  
And despite it all, he’s still lonely.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I didn't know where I was going with this, and I do not like it, but I wanted it out of my drafts. I promise my next bit will be more cohesive and a better read. Despite that, hope this was at least somewhat enjoyable to read. :)


End file.
